


Sensations d'étincelles

by Silver Lioness (Rumpels_Darker_Dearie)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Creature Fic, F/M, Heartbreak, history repeats itself, soulmate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-10-17 23:23:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17569895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumpels_Darker_Dearie/pseuds/Silver%20Lioness
Summary: Sensations d'étincelles: Spark SensationsHermione Le Grange is waiting to make Rabastan Lestrange hers, but Lucius Malfoi spoils that dream… it does not help that exchange student Narcissa Black gives her the chills.Unfortunately, for Lucius those chills now run down his back when Hermione Granger reaches the age of majority one year and two months earlier than her muggle birth certificate states - is it because she is NOT Hermione Granger or is the Time Turner part of it and what part does this play into Dumbledore's machination?Original T Rated One Shot is on Fanfiction . net - it is part of International Schools Competition, and won Judges Pick.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lumionessence (SheyrinaLabyrinthianDragon)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheyrinaLabyrinthianDragon/gifts).



> Thank you HAVELOCKED for beta’ing this for me and making sure I keep to word count and making me think. I would like it noted this story is set in the latter half of the 18th Century and, noticing the amount of French names in Harry Potter, I set the entire story in Beauxbaton’s and set it in the Alps. This is LUMIONE! Without the age-gap, to start with.
> 
> Lumionessence designed the banner - I just tweaked it a bit.

 

 

**Sensations d'étincelles**

Lightning flashed through her tears as she sat on a bench overlooking the gorgeous Pyrenees landscape, spread before her like a feast for the eyes. A sight which embalmed peace into her soul most days, but not this: her 17th birthday, the day a witch came of age. A day normally to be celebrated but Hermione Le Grange found she could not celebrate. Not when her heart was torn asunder and ripped from her chest in menacing circumstances that seemed to be mirrored in the celestial heavens above. For though she was embedded as part of a mountain range, Hermione realised how humble the human species was when one took in the grand scheme of things. Yet, it was an excruciatingly painful, human moment for her.

As the somber sky grew bruising angry clouds, gravid with the weight of rain, Hermione thought how the gods must be joining her in her sorrow. The sound of rumbling thunder echoed through the crevices, whistling through the cracks, resonating deep within the caves hidden in the rocks. It seemed to her as if an earthquake threatened to rend the school apart by the crashing roar and the violent forked flashes of stark white sparks decorating the contusioned sky.

The air grew heavy and thick with the promise of precipitation. Fat rain drops threatened to pour down on her in droves. She sighed forlornly, resigned to this, closing her eyes as she let the first cool splashes hit her tilted face. Sticking her tongue out to catch the water, she hoped to find out if it tasted of the despair evident in her soul.

Hermione was part of the lower classes yet that didn’t stop her from becoming a phenomenal witch. She didn’t allow poverty to stop her from studying; she was a scholarship student and damn proud of it. Her father owned a small village apothecary, tending to the aches and pains of both beast and man. Paid a pittance for it but still, he was a proud man. He’d married an equally stubborn woman who produced a strong-willed daughter after having lost a few sons due to war, famine and the bloody revolution.

It was a shock to both her parents when they found their daughter able to do odd things. Peculiarities followed her. Havoc seemed to trail in her wake. There was a point when the villagers were accusing them of witchcraft and her as a changeling. Not that Alexandre and Helene were believers in such superstitious nonsense – ascribing themselves to the scientific school of thought that everything held logical purpose and it was up to them to discover what. So, when it turned out she was accepted into a school of people like herself, they were delighted that there was reason behind the amazing things she could do.

“After all,” they both said to their little girl before the carriage with flying horses came to their house, under the cloak of night and shadow, “the world is large, and we are a small part in it. Do what you can to make your role great.”

They always sent her sweetmeats and trinkets on her birthdays and at Yule. Her father wrote copiously often, as he adored his darling, talented Hermione with her wild hair and determined ways.

Then – at the tender age of 13 – she started bleeding. Worried she wrote to her mother in anxious haste to explain what was happening to her: _please mama I am scared!_ It was the start of her journey to adulthood. Once her father had found out his daughter was ready for husbands to be considered his advice ever more prudent in his missives to her, begging her not to grow too fast too quickly.

_“Be not like those princesses in Charles Perrault, waiting for a Prince to come and save you. YOU are a capable and fine young woman. You know the fine art of dancing, and your skills on the pianoforte_ _are not to be scorned. You, my wild girl, are to be admired and adored. If you keep love in your heart and feed your soul with compassion you shall want for nothing – not all riches are covered in gold and silver.”_

She scrunched the letter in her light blue lacy-gloved hands as the thunder threatened ever more, curdling the bright sky with its dolorous gloom. Tears began to roll down her cheeks as she shivered in the cold, not caring if she were to catch a fever or consumption. Riding the midst of the storm was what she desired to do.

Unlike other schools she knew of, Beauxbatons was mixed race, cultures, creeds and sex. It was unheard of in sans-magique society for boys to mix with girls on a daily basis – yet they cohabitated quite well. It was due to this that her heart was shattering even as the sky cracked.

Earlier that year a boy called Rabastan Lestrange had offered to pay court to her as she had grown in elegance and grace. She was far from the dirty ragamuffin that first entered the school. It helped that Beauxbatons taught not only sorcery, chemistry and alchemy but also gave time to teach young wizards and witches the finer arts such as dancing, foreign languages, both non-magical and magical, and musical instruments. It turned out Hermione could also sing and was often called for private recitals by her Potions Master – a fat English man called Horace Slughorn.

Yes, Hermione excelled! In all things, she was methodical, logical, prepared and well-spoken. How did things go wrong this quickly?

Whilst she was the first in her year to become of age, that presented a problem. A boy in the year above her, a supercilious blond who wore a sneer like it was fashionable, was of the highest of classes. He owned a Châteaux in the French countryside, a townhouse in Paris, a manor house in the English countryside – somewhere called Wiltshire if she recalled correctly, and a London townhouse. The revolution was starting to become ugly but heavens above if a Malfoi be poor!

According to him, that is who she was to become. The future Mistress of said establishments, with family jewels, fine robes – haute couture of the highest of quality, to parade about in - and power. She was to have influence.

More so than if she wed Rabastan, yet that is who her heart splintered for.

Waves of grief rolled over her, reflecting the heavily precipitating clouds above. Drenching rain flattened her usually untameable hair against her skin and stuck her clothes to her flesh as she wallowed in misery.

When she woke up this morning it was with boundless joy. The sky was clear, the sun was shining on the crisp autumnal dawn and she was of age to accept the offer of courtship from Rabastan Lestrange, who’s sea-green eyes that darkened like the stormy seas when he’d gazed upon her had always entranced her.

All those feelings had vanished the moment she felt a tug in her magical core. It was that strange force moving her towards someone who was always on the darker edge of society. Already dangling his toes in the inky pools of forbidden knowledge. The moment she’d realised who she was moving towards she tried to resist.

Then he seemed to move of his own accord across the room. Their eyes were only on each other as his turned liquid silver, glinting in stark warning, the way a bolt of lightning would if one was too near its trajectory. Echoes of haunting melody had filled her ears, her heart and her soul with a disturbing peace.

Without warning, he’d reached his arms around her shoulders and planted his lips on hers in a furious, possessive kiss that tangled tongues as he’d drawn her further into his space. Fingers laced through her hair as she had no control over this feeling whatsoever. The moment they stopped kissing his eyes had returned to their normal silvery grey, lips red, glistening with her saliva – panting against her. Her hands had found themselves entangled in his long white-blond locks and she’d gulped as the tugging sensation had left her.

He had no discernible emotion on his controlled visage but he let his grip speak for him as he pinched his fingers into her forearm turning her around so they could talk somewhere less populated. He held a position of privilege in the school as the son of a trustee and nephew to one of the board members and retained his own rooms. This was where she learned of her fate.

She’d no time to take in her surroundings as he pushed her against the thick wood of the door and took her mouth again in a fervent kiss. He let her go as she whimpered for him to stop, scrabbling her fingers for purchase against his strong forearms, strengthened by playing Quidditch, a sport she was never interested in. Malfoi believed in keeping physically beautiful as well as mentally astute.

Finally, he moved slightly, enough for her to raise her foot and stomp on his thereby diminishing the passion in an instant.

“Monsieur Malfoi, I demand to know what you are attempting to force upon my person.”

“I need you the way the ground needs water. You’re the reason I abhor Narcissa Black. I’ve been waiting for this moment for an entire year of my life, and yet you dare to rupture your presence from mine!”

“Really, Monsieur? You expect me to enjoy your attempts at seduction – in front of the entire school? You’d better have a good reason for trying to defame me so. I mayn’t be of your class, but I do have my pride.”

“Pride?” he scoffed. “Honestly, I’d recovered that from the embers months ago when all I could hear was my soul singing for yours. You and I are destined to be.”

“What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything, Mademoiselle, I’ve wanted to tell you for ever so long, but I couldn’t. My father tried to make a match with the English maiden Narcissa Black, but you are whom I need to carry on my line, my family.”

“You forget Monsieur that I’m not born of your class, that there are people of my heart dying of hunger, sickness and sheer poverty.”

“I cannot forget, Mademoiselle. Were it not for my family affliction I would gladly allow Monsiuer Lestrange to make a fool of himself for you, however, it isn’t possible for me to live without you.

“Do you even know my name, Monsieur?”

“You’re Mademoiselle Hermione Le Grange,” he replied cutting off any further argument she might have.

That was when she sighed heavily and silently explored her environs. The chamber was richly furnished in light woods. Plum purple velvet curtains would conceal him in darkness at night as he lay on a gradient of turquoise acromantula silk bed-sheets atop a soft feather mattress and pillows. Comfortable sofas and chaise lounges surrounded a large hearth with deep carpets for feet to sink into. Large wall-to-ceiling bookcases filled to the brim with tomes of all subjects frankly overwhelmed her and she had to pace around holding onto her stomach to centre herself in the midst of such luxury.

“Please, just explain before I inform the headmistress of your indiscretions.”

“Mademoiselle, you’re well-learned and highly informed of our world through your constant study. I put it to you to work out which creature needs a mate to survive.”

It took her half-an-hour to rattle off a list of creatures in alphabetical order. He didn’t hide the smirk as realisation dawned in her eyes!

“A Veela?” she stammered holding her hand over her erratically beating heart. The final blow was his curt nod.

“You have a whole year, Mademoiselle Le Grange, for me to pay court to you, for us to get engaged then to wed. Of course,” he stepped closer to her again. the pull of his gaze tilted her head right up, so she was gazing in his eyes. “The longer it’s drawn out, the more pain I will be in – or,” he made sure their gazes were connected now. “We could just skip the courting part and go onto the engagement. I desire your response before sundown.”

Hermione gulped, knowing exactly what he meant. He expected her to gently refuse Rabastan’s advances, then to act coquettishly all over him. He tilted his head, his eyes icing over, freezing her to the core.

“I shall see you at the days end, Monsieur,” she bobbed her knees politely. “I’ll ruminate the possibilities.”

This was the point when she’d calmly dashed out of his chambers, bumping into Narcissa Black who proceeded to be exceptionally rude about her. She heard the witch complain loudly: _Clearly, her betrothed was having fun in the dirt before he got clean in pure waters._ It was all Hermione could do not to grab the woman by her pretty blond hair and jump on her the way she did the village girls. All she saw was Lucius tilt Narcissa’s head to plant a kiss on her lips.

“Darling, I’ve something to tell you,” he said then shut the door. Hermione winced, knowing truthfully that Lucius couldn’t wait to be rid of the vapid viper.

She’d quietly made it through the day without making too much of an impression. Her peers had noticed how dull her eyes were, how pallid her complexion, and how thin her lips were drawn. Hermione didn’t even raise her hand up. That, of course, drew a concerned furrowed brow from Rabastan – he wrote her a little note asking if she was well. A simple nod of the head was her quiet reply.

Her appetite was non-existent at dinner as she felt sharp glints of ice from Narcissa’s stare at her back.  When she looked up, the smug smirk on Lucius’ face was almost enough to drive her out of the dining hall altogether. When Rabastan took hold of her hand as they ate her composure cracked. She excused herself then dashed out onto the promontory where she’d spent the last half-hour pouring out her broken heart as the storm descended.

Now she was shivering and logically knew she should go back indoors but she stubbornly remained out in the angry weather. Her skin as white as a ghost, her hands wrinkled by the water. Dazedly she got up, walked, and peered over the sheer cliff-side trying to judge how long it would take her to die.

Hunger and stress combined sent her weak, the cold had made her lose her reason, and her broken heart combined with the wet stones and wood, culminating in a slip from loss of grip on the drenched railing. Her knees thunked against the stone, followed by her head smashing against a sharp wooden edge, then darkness.

♥♦♥

Truth be told, Lucius mused, he could’ve made the situation for Mademoiselle Le Grange much easier by explaining things to her gently, with compassion. Teasing her with Narcissa was a touch cruel even for him. _All things considered_ , he decided as he sipped his wine at his table, _he’d held breeding and etiquette from birth, and she had behaved better than him_. Now he was ashamed of his actions.

He’d practically ordered her to break any attachments to Rabastan in a heartless manner. Surely when his father found out, and he would, he’d be sternly reprimanded. The young woman was his mate, his life-support system. He could’ve been charming, but instead, he’d blundered his way through like the proverbial bull.

It wasn’t until an hour after he watched her leave the dining halls with tears in her eyes that he felt something attacking him from within. Lucius’ inner Veela was hurting. He could feel a transformation, preparing him to fight for his right to live and mate. There was only one thing that could’ve happened.

He glanced out the rain-splattered windows, blinking as a streak of lightning shot through the sky almost blinding him, and then he knew.

The blood - he could taste her blood, her despair, her anguish. Growling, he threw the glass at the fireplace. Harshly putting on his waterproofed outer-robes. There was only one place she could possibly be.

Once he’d left his room, Lucius made sure to walk quickly. _Running was undignified_ , his father said to him after a six-year-old Lucius had smacked into Abraxas’ legs, landing on the floor and bumping his head. _Muggles run when they’ve committed crimes, an admission of guilt, but a Malfoi must behave with a straight back and cool logic. No exceptions!_

Rounding some corners he’d found Rabastan whose expression was darkly foreboding, as Lucius found when he got nearer. The younger fellow grabbed the blond by the material of his robes and thumped him against the walls.

“What’ve you done to her, you two-faced donkey’s butt!”

“I told her what you should’ve said but were too selfish too. Veela’s needs trump Wizards lusts, as you know. Now, follow me,” he coolly brushed Rabastan’s hands off his person and assumed leadership right away. “I am 99% certain of where she is and 100% sure of the danger she’s in of dying.”

Rabastan's complexion turned as curdled as sour milk. The girl’s life was at risk, and both allowed their hearts to fill with anxious worry. They’d reached the third floor promontory that led from the dining halls into the hothouses. It didn’t take long to find her laying there pelted on, hardly breathing and bloodied.

“HERMIONE!” Rabastan yelled sliding on his knees to be by her side. His scream could chill the icebergs and it certainly rooted Lucius to the spot. “HERMIONE, PLEASE…” he sobbed as he turned her around watching her eyelids flicker, her pale blue lips quivering. “Please, please, please, HERMIONE, NO, DON’T GO TO SLEEP!” Lucius watched as Rabastan hugged her close to him rocking her back and forth.

Thankfully Professor Slughorn was in the hothouse having one of his little tea parties for the younger students and had heard the gut-churning cries of the name. He waddled out as fast as his fat body could let him and Lucius locked his gaze with him. He wondered how the man could have been that near a student he claimed to care for and not see her. What way had he come? Students that young weren’t allowed to learn Apparition. The hothouses didn’t have a Floo connection.Of course, he raised word by the use of a Patronus charm and she was transported magically to the Hospital Wing via side along by the Headmistress.

“If she dies,” Rabastan hissed at Lucius, “I’m blaming you.”

“If she dies, so do I.”

“Serves you right for being such a smug mule,” Rabastan’s eyes threatened. “Narcissa told me how you broke the news to her. I hope after this she will forgive you because I bloody well cannot.”

♥♦♥

Thankfully Lucius and Rabastan had found her just in time. The day she woke up she sighed as the sun hurt her eyes. Lucius was sleep ruffled and his clothes looked as if they’d been slept in for days. When he realised she was conscious he slowly made his way back to the land of the living. A cup of coffee appeared by his side as it did by hers.

“He knew, didn’t he?” Hermione’s voice cracked with the effort of talking. “Rabastan, he knew that we were forbidden but he still tried, didn’t he?”

“He wouldn’t have had you for long, Mademoiselle,” Lucius coughed. “You would’ve died when I did.”

“How… how long have I… I been here for?”

“You were placed in a magically induced sleep until yesterday,” Lucius sighed rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’d never been more human than now. “A lot had to be tube fed and your heart had only regulated then.”

“What happens now?” she sipped her coffee gingerly, still not quite used to the taste. “With us?”

Lucius shrugged: “That’s up to you, I suppose,” he put his feet back on the floor leaving dirt marks on her covers. “How’d you prefer to proceed?”

“I think we should go for the quick engagement, married life for wizards is long enough to get to know one another.”

“I think you’re wise. I shall inform my parents, as you should yours.”

Hermione giggled: “Oh monsieur, be careful to call me by my name: Hermione.”

“I extend the favour to you also; in your correspondence do call me Lucius.” He picked her hand up and bowed his forehead to it then kissed along all her knuckles. “You will suit our family quite well.”

Watching him stride out of the room she sighed and leant her head back against the soft plumped pillows.

She should have remembered that there was always hope after the rain.


	2. A Traditional Invite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 see's how the time-turner has affected Hermione's growth, how she feels about certain people in her life. An Order Member has not be sparing blushes when looking at her. Little does she know that is about to be taught in the laws of magical kind.
> 
> Little does she understand the manipulations of Lucius Malfoy and why he wanted her one so badly.
> 
> Could she _really_ become worthy for pureblood status or are there much more rules that affect the under 17 users of magic ban? 
> 
> Why has Sirius Black suddenly creeping her out? Why is Professor Snape being gallant in his defense of her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a huge time jump from the beginning but there is a reason. There will be more concerning Lucius Malfoi and Hermione Le Grange. 
> 
> This story will contain a not so nice Sirius. He did have darkness within him (using his werewolf pal as a weapon to kill Severus - that's dark!) So, I will be exploring more of that dark nature.

**Sensations d'étincelles**

**A Traditional Invitation**

**Thursday 18 th July 1996**

**Grimmauld Place**

**London**

If she had to dust one more already pristine item, Hermione growled, she would scream

Only one person could make a feather duster funny and that was Ken Dodd. Giving up, she chucked the blasted thing on the floor, petulantly leaning against the wall. This was nothing less than slave labour. So what, some clever pants Dark Lord decides to return and made prisoners of everyone. This house sickened her, steeped in dark magic and disturbingly proud of being so.

She felt different today. An odd tingling sensation was broiling in the pit of her belly. She’d read of growing pains, but this was ridiculous. Her breasts were bigger from one day to the next. Molly decided to add Harry and Hermione to her record of measurements so if she needed to sort out robes for them she’d had the nearest correct ones on hand to give the couturiers. She was measured this morning and Molly mumbled how it was odd that her growth rate was extremely fast.

Every week skirts and jeans that reached her ankles were further up the shin. At the beginning of July her breast size was 30-A, now she was 30-C. Her mother was beginning to despair over the fortune in undergarments her daughter was costing them.

Even her hair had grown longer, therefore losing some of it’s former bushiness though it still resembled a rats nest. Then there was her face. Her skin was now suddenly flawless, (oh the irony after fighting so long with acne before the Yule Ball!) There was a definition in the angle of her jaw. Her cheek-bone looked higher, 15 was too young to start losing puppy fat, she thought.

“Looking fine, Hermione,” Ginny grinned this morning. “Seriously, you look like a Naughty Head Girl!”

“Don’t be silly,” she had replied. “I am nowhere near that time yet.” 

“Just saying, Hermione, you got it flaunt it.”

Unfortunately, that was the moment Ron had decided to amble into the room. The blush quickly spread along his cheeks down his neck and, Hermione knew, onto his shoulders. The problems of being pale skinned. Thankfully, what the three had in common was freckles. Ron’s were darker than the girls. Though Ginny’s spread along the bridge of her nose more. Hermione had a light smattering all across her face.

“’S’cuse me,” Ron muttered and dashed out again.

“Stop laughing, Ginny,” Hermione tried to calm Ginny’s giggling down.

“You’re smirking,” her ‘sister’ volleyed back.

“Come on, lets go to breakfast,” the girls linked arms and slowly walked down the stairs.

They heard a long high pitched whistle from the doorway to the dining room: “Oh if only I were twenty years younger,” Sirius winked at the girls.

“You’re not my type,” Hermione said as she walked by him.

That was another thing that changed, she was not comfortable around Sirius anymore. True she liked him as far as Harry was concerned but the disrespect he showed to Kreacher unnerved her. _Somehow_ , she thought, _anyone could lose glamour when they were drunk_. Regretfully she’d caught him in various states of inebriation more than once. 

There was something deeply disconcerting about the way he stared at her in the evenings when no one else was looking. Swirling his whiskey as he reclined back in his seat. He looked at her like she was his latest meal. The first time she caught him she’d made sure to always have someone with her. 

Innocent of the Potter’s betrayal he may have been, but he was not exactly good as gold either. Tarnished from his upbringing, probably. Corroding his already slightly wonky principles. They’d rusted when his good friends were murdered, most certainly. Cracked from Azkaban, absolutely definitely. 

So she did not like his salacious smirk as she walked in to join the Weasleys and their Order friends for breakfast. It was a shock to her to see Professor Snape had actually joined in, his trademark scowl firmly in place. Making him as unapproachable as ever. _Though_ , she decided, _that was going to stop_. 

There was nothing in previous behaviours to suggest he truly believed in the Dark Lord. He may have done at one time, but Hermione was compassionate towards his tenable position as a spy. One foot in the Light and one in the Dark would gripe on anyone’s last nerves. 

_All wars had spies_ , she conceded, _why should this one be any different_? She’d read enough John Le Carré novels to know spying was not a glamourous job. Real life espionage was nothing to do with shaken martini’s, women dressed to the nines in high-class casinos on the Riviera, designer clothing and flashy cars. It was a thankless task often done by people who were deemed dispensable by both sides once the war was won.

Give her a George Smiley over a James Bond any day, and Professor Snape was more of the George Smiley class of spy

“I do not know why I would not be your type, Hermione,” Sirius said as he took a seat next to his mischievous cousin, Nymphadora. “You’re my type.”

“I doubt that, Black,” Snape interceded before she had time to answer. “Miss Granger, to my knowledge, does not attempt to kill her classmates.”

She was startled by that proclamation. Who had Sirius attempted to kill? Only one other person seemed to know the truth, she narrowly observed Remus squirming uncomfortably the other side of Nymphadora. The former DADA Professor was sitting directly opposite her, so she was in perfect position to observe him. Intrigued by the colours that ran across the gentle man’s face.

“You never know, she may just feel tempted to this year.”

“ _Tempted_ to, and _attempted_ to, are two different things, Black.” 

If this carried on the milk would curdle from all the poison in the air whenever these two were in the same room. She thought Harry and Malfoy needed their heads knocking together sometimes but the churlish display between these two so-called men had rattled her all the wrong ways. 

“You _do_ realise that it was _our_ Hermione that got Harry through the tri-wizard tournament whilst you were too busy kissing Karkaroff.”

The temples at her head began to throb. She had not even managed a buttery half of a breakfast muffin. 

“Now we plunge into the depths of your adolescent disposition,” Snape said sarcastically. 

Why was Professor Snape defending her? Not that she wasn’t grateful, and he was right, she would never kill someone no matter the situation. However, he had never spoken a word of esteem towards her before.

“Gentleman,” Arthur coughed, his intervention went unheard.

The two men continued to snipe and snarl at each other. She could see the twins were laying odds on who had the last word. Nymphadora was edging further away from Sirius and closer to Remus who was blushing at her close proximity. A fact Hermione thought was rather cute. Ron was hiding a smug grin behind his hand. Molly was glaring furiously from her end of the table – nobody ruined or argued at the breakfast table when she’d prepared the food.

The only other people that seemed to show any signs of maturity was Kingsley, a man she’d quickly developed a crush on. Bill Weasley, who looked as if he was ready to separate the men any moment now and Arthur.

Ginny’s reaction frightened Hermione the most. The poor girl was white as a sheet. Eventually, Ginny leaned her elbows on the table and had covered her ears. Hissing sounds like whispered arguments was a trigger to Ginny, suddenly Hermione felt protective over the little girl.

Since her second year, Ginny had confided in Hermione that certain things reawakened the darkness the Diary had exposed. Some noises made her flinch. Any sudden loud clang could make her want to hide in her room. These men were going to give her a panic attack if they carried on.

“STOP IT!” Hermione bellowed standing up so fast her chair fell down causing Ginny to yelp.

The men did as they were told, and stopped bickering, but only because they were shocked Hermione had commanded them to do it.

“What did you say, Miss Granger?”

“I asked you to stop arguing,” she said calmly, “over _half_ of us at this table are, or were, your students Professor. How do you expect us to respect you when we see you act like a child?” blazing fury had took over her and she glared at Sirius Black, “you ought to know better. LOOK!” she swept an arm at Ginny who was muttering things to herself, trembling. Thankfully, she was sitting next to Bill and he snuggled his only sister into his protective arms. “Your argument nearly triggered her into a mild panic. You should know why Professor. Mr Black, if you want to be a father-figure to Harry you’re going to have to act like one!”

Ron looked at Hermione as if she had grown another head as she admonished their strict teacher. Everyone else, however, glanced at her with approval. To her slight distaste so had Sirius.

“Come on, Sirius,” Remus sighed rolling his eyes waves of exasperation could be felt on Hermione’s skin.

“I haven’t eaten yet!” Black griped.

Now that Black had been hauled up by the scruff of the neck by his earnest friend, she had realised everyone was staring at her. 

“They grow up so fast,” Molly sniffled in her handkerchief.

That was another new thing, being extra sensitive to other’s emotions. It was odd. One of the twins had picked up Hermione’s chair and sat her now shaking body back into it. When she was in school she’d have to look it up.

 “Thank you,” she said to the twin next to her.

“You should be given a bloody medal for telling Beaky to shut up.”

“I said the same thing to Black as well.”

“I know, you got guts and balls.”

“Thanks… I think,” she said as she nibbled at the muffin on her plate sipping her coffee.

“I am sorry, Miss Weasley, if I have caused you unwanted grief,” Professor Snape said before rattling the paper and reclining back. More relaxed now neither Marauder was in the room. “I will let your insolence slide this once, Miss Granger, but I trust you will behave with better decorum in the future.”

That was cryptic!

Lunchtime went more smoothly, due to the fact that Sirius had locked himself in his old bedroom, most likely drinking himself to an early grave.

It was now four pm, the blistering heat made her want to dunk herself in the Thames. If she was at home she’d have had a cold shower. The knowledge that the adults, Molly aside, were out working kept her in her room. By now Molly would be having an afternoon nap.

Without adult supervision, she felt practically alone in the house. All day long she was shadowed by a grateful Ginny, a rutilant Ronald, and a brooding drunk and his quiet friend. Now Ginny was out in the garden under the shade of an umbrella reading. Ronald was supposedly sweeping up after Witherwings – aka Buckbeak.

This house was too big and too empty for her to feel safe enough to go downstairs alone to fetch herself an ice-cold glass of Limeade. Especially with no one to hear her scream if something should happen.

“This house is gone to the dogs,” a guttural choking was heard nearby. Kreacher was about. “Mudbloods, blood traitors, half-bloods and werewolves. What would poor Mistress think if she were to see the people in her lovely home.” Lovely? First built it may have been dazzling but now it so much of a dump even squatters would think twice. “But Kreacher liked the way Missy Mudblood told young Master off, so he did.”

She wondered if he was a descendant of Gollum. Although, how that would have happened she was not quite sure. Colour her surprised at the crotchety old elf’s next statement: “Missy may bes Mudblood but at least she says pleases and thank-yous. Least she’s _polite_!”

Now she knew what impressed the elf she coughed and murmured: “Kreacher, please, I request a long glass of ice-cold Limeade.” A second later he popped in with said beverage on a stained silver tray. “Thank you, Kreacher.”

“Mudbloods,” was his snide answer.

“Well, well, so Miss Granger has a soft spot for a being that would not care less if she were dead.”

Hermione almost leapt out of her skin at the sound of Snape’s voice behind her. She could almost feel his breath on her neck he was so close. Her little yelp made him smirk she noticed, and it was amazing that not a drop of drink was spilled.

“He’s entitled to his opinion, Professor,” she replied once she had gained equilibrium. Coolly she shrugged her shoulders missing the way his eyes widened at the smooth gesture. “Mmm, he put alcohol in this.”

“Then I shall…”

“I’ve been drinking watered down wine since I was five, Professor, I have had that particular craving bred out of me.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Out at work. Molly is napping. Ron and I are cleaning. Ginny is out in the garden reading. The other two are somewhere brooding probably.”

To her astonishment, Professor Snape laughed: “The Headmaster is coming over tonight, so I imagine Molly is making sure everything is spick and span.”

Professor Snape sighed as he gazed through her rather than at her, the chills that evoked, cooled her down more effectively than the drink. He held the gaze on her for what seemed like hours rather than seconds. Then he blinked and shook his head.

“Everything all right, sir?” she asked softly not wishing to startle him.

“Fine, yes, fine,” he muttered. “I suppose dinner is prepared.”

“It is just a salad today I think,” she replied, “why?”

“Growing pains,” was his mysterious answer.

How peculiar!

Then everyone from the Order who enjoyed Molly’s feasts arrived. The blush she felt when Auror Shacklebolt smiled at her with a merry greeting made her preen. Her moment of triumph became mortifying when she saw the twins had also noticed and elbowed each other laughing. _Perfect_ , now they were going to tease her about that all year.

Of course, as it was Molly, it was not just a salad. The table was laden down with food. Large bowls filled with boiled buttered potatoes. Homemade coleslaw in little side-dishes for everyone. Egg slices displayed in round serving dishes steaming from being freshly cooked. Tuna and sweetcorn sandwiches. Beetroot and feta cheese was prepared because Hermione once said she loved both foods. Every type of cheese and meats one could think of. If it was not for the fact that Sirius swayed in smelling like the back alley of a pub and plonked himself opposite her, she’d have enjoyed it immensely.

Professor Dumbledore swept in regally counting the heads of the _official_ order members, then twinkled as he counted the _un_ -official members and nodded. It seemed to Hermione that the Headmaster was satisfied there were no disasters today. He took his place at the table that was rightfully Sirius’.  Although, she knew he would not mind, as he continued observing her. Intensely. Her stomach broiled again as if the thought of him touching made her feel ill. A fact odd in itself as she hadn’t felt that with Viktor. He was still staring at her after Dumbledore made a little speech. She felt trapped in her seat, desperately wishing to hide from those maddened eyes.

Then they heard the tap-tap of an impatient owl on the window. All heads turned to see who it belonged to. When no one recognised it, the owl tapped again, this time insistent that it should come in. Molly got up and let the handsome owl in. It hooted as if checking to see if it had come to the right place then it’s huge golden eyes locked onto Hermione’s and he flew to her, depositing a silver envelope carefully, in her lap. She gave it a bit of chicken breast to swallow.

“Is that…?” Molly gasped.

“I think so,” Remus replied.

“Excuse me,” the Headmaster said as he rose up from his chair, every bit the leader he was. “The less people know about this, the better. Arthur, Molly, as you are her guardians in this world you have to stay. Professor Snape, you should too, as should you Mr Black.”

_How did he do it_? She wondered. If anyone else had said that in the middle of dinner, everyone would be playing twenty questions with everyone else, at the same time. _Wonderful,_ she thought bitterly allowing a slight sneer to pull at her lips as she watched them trickle out one-by-one, no questions asked. _Could have done with your brand of charisma earlier_!

When it was just the six of them left the Headmaster nodded, silently giving her the go ahead to open this strangely coloured envelope. The moment she finished silently reading the letter she almost fainted! 

“What’s this about, Albus?” Arthur asked. She heard his concerned tones through her shock. He’d allowed his worry to show through his voice. “Molly…”

However, it was Sirius who answered, and she was certain she despised his hungry tone: “It seems that our Hermione has _come of age_ , a little earlier than expected, am I right?”

“Oh come on,” Molly scoffed. “I know she’s been growing at the rate of knots, but body development does not mean she has _come of age_.”

The way both magi’s said those last three words sent her brain whirring. Why? Was there some special importance attached to the event of a witches 17th Birthday? She knew wizards were given watches to signify their foothold onto the mountainous climb of adulthood,  but what did witches receive?

That was when the novels of Jane Austen entered her mind. The conversation between Lady Catherine De Burgh and Elizabeth Bennet being of special note: _“What?” she remembered the old hag asked the heroine, shocked by the Bennet’s bold parenting style. “All five gels out at the same time? The younger are out before the eldest are married?”_

Back in the time when coming out meant a girl of good breeding and marriageable age were taken to balls in order to find some husband. When a season meant a summer to London where polite society were reduced to nothing more than a cattle market.

So, men got a watch – probably to remind them to get to the civil offices in time to sign the marriage certificate whilst witches got to be dolled up for the day, wined and dined then married. As much as she loved the old-world charm, there were times Hermione wished the Wizarding world was rocketed into the twentieth century. Hell, a few short years and they’d be approaching a new millennium and 17-year-old witches were still treated like dairy cows.

“There has not been a coming out ceremony for decades,” Professor Snape breathed out in a shocked tone.

Oh, so she was the lucky poster girl for the revival of this quaint misogynistic custom then, terrific.

“Why now?” Molly asked.

Blinking a little she gazed up to look into the one face she felt safest settling on and that was Molly Weasley. Her distress must have shone through her eyes as Molly bustled her way down the table where she pulled Hermione in a tight hug.

“What does your missive say, Hermione?” Arthur asked gently.

She coughed as she took the letter back in her hand and held it up so she could read it clearly. Never let it be said that Hermione let her emotions run away with her, except on the times when they did, but now all she wanted was her fears to be laughed away.

 

> _“Dear Miss Hermione Granger_
> 
> _It has come to our attention that you are one of the new witches to approach the wonderful age of 17. A fascinating time where the world is an exciting place full of all kinds of possibilities. Where you can be the beautiful Princess you perhaps dreamed you’d be when you were a child._
> 
> _Once upon a time, our world held parties and witty discourse with other witches in social settings. Tea-time téte-a-tétes with estimable patrons trained young muggleborns to work well within our society. The Patron’s duty is to educate and prepare you for life outside Hogwarts._
> 
> _Any matches must be fully agreed by your magical guardian: Mr Arthur Weasley and Mrs Molly Weasley, your Patron, and the parents of your intended._
> 
> _There were also occasions for witches to be able to put these lessons to good use. The Ministry, or the Patron’s husband, would host gala’s and balls in their homes. The ultimate goal: to find the perfect match._
> 
> _If you are chosen by a good Patron your expenses will be covered. Gowns, jewellery, (sometimes family pieces were loaned from family vaults), in other words, they had the best money could buy._
> 
> _Sadly, due to a now deceased Dark Lord’s rise, the Ministry could no longer hold these functions, and the last was held in the summer of 1956, forty-years-ago._
> 
> _We are delighted to announce that we have decided to revive this time-honoured tradition on a monthly basis. You and your fellow of-age witches who also turn 17 this month are invited to attend the first Patronage Ceremony since 1956._
> 
> _You must appear in your best set of robes by the Ministry doors, via side-along with your magical guardian, whom we understand is Mr Arthur Weasley._
> 
> _Attendance is not compulsory. However, in the past, this did open doors for young witches where they might be closed otherwise._
> 
> _As you should not have come of age until September 1996 your eligibility was debated thoroughly, but it was decided by anonymous votes, that the board were in favour for you to attend earlier._
> 
> _We hope you have a good time and remember that adage: The smiler wears a crown; the loser wears a frown._
> 
> _Signatures witnessed by The Board:_
> 
> _In Order of Importance_
> 
> _Minister for Magic: Cornelius Fudge_
> 
> _Undersecretary to the Minister: Dolores Jane Umbridge_
> 
> _Head of the DMLE: Rufus Scrimgeour (Order of Merlin First-Class)_
> 
> _Head of Accounts: Lucius Malfoy_
> 
> _Head of Education: Athena Fair_
> 
> _Head of Health: Farley Wells_
> 
> _Head of Magical Creatures: Damian Claw (Order of Merlin Third-Class)_
> 
> _Head of Underage Traces: Garth Yew_
> 
> _Head of Births, Deaths and Marriage: Franklin Wisheart_
> 
> _Head of Sports and Entertainment: Ludo Bagman_
> 
> _Head of Misuse of Muggle Artefacts: Arthur Weasley_
> 
> _Signed_
> 
> _Undersecretary to the Minister_
> 
> _Dolores Jane Umbridge.”_

“Did you _know_ about this Arthur?” Molly turned to her husband.

Awkwardly, he coughed, Hermione saw his body twist as though making to run but was glued to the spot. “I recall witnessing signatures and asking to sign a piece of paper that was folded at the edges. I can’t remember attending any meeting…”

“Don’t lie to me, Arthur Weasley,” Molly said in her shrewd voice.

“All right,” Arthur sighed taking his glasses off and polishing them on his robes before placing them back on. A nervous habit of his that suggested they were not going to like what was coming, Hermione knew this because she’d seen him do it before to prolong bad news. “A few weeks ago there was a meeting – it was lunch-time and I was promised an early home-time, so I was a bit distracted at the thought of excellent dinner. Anyway, Malfoy made us stay. He sort of sighed and brought up how his father spun glorious tales of this coming-of-age ceremony. This pink woman coughed, then clapped whole-heartedly agreeing to said revival. By then I was almost tasting your beef pâté and well – next thing I knew Malfoy was standing at my side. Smirking and shaking a piece of parchment. He asked me to sign it, so I did just to get home. I did not think to ask what it was about. I was starving.”

“Severus,” her head turned at the sound of the Headmaster’s somewhat disapproving voice.

“Don’t look at me,” Professor Snape threw his arms up and wildly gesticulated. “This is the first I’ve heard of it too, I’m not privy to Malfoy’s political schemes.”

“You’re meant to _spy_ , aren’t you?” Black sneered.

“On the Death Eaters as a whole group, not on frivolities such as balls and, quite frankly, outdated ceremonies where witches are lined up like cattle to be auctioned off to the first twit who gives her a wink.” 

If she had no respect for Professor Snape before, she certainly did now.

“So what are you going to do?” Headmaster Dumbledore asked.

“I’ll go,” Hermione said decisively. “I will be in a room full of people. Malfoy would not dare step out of line with Fudge watching and, to be honest, I’m going a bit stir crazy. I doubt I’d get a patron anyway.”

That was the end of probably the weirdest day of her life.

By the time she got to bed she was thoroughly exhausted and told Ron to shut up when he kept asking her questions over what the silver envelope meant. Thankfully, Ginny was quietly reading an autobiography of one of her favourite seekers from History.

Knowing tomorrow was going to be more emotionally taxing, she went to sleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

♥♦♥

**WILTSHIRE**

SAME DAY

Lucius smiled as his owl returned without a reply. It was going according to plan. Tomorrow he’d have lured young Miss Granger out, and the best thing about this plan was, it was authentic. The Ceremonial Ball was genuine with the decorations being main priority for all junior members of staff in every department. He sipped some of his fire-whiskey and chuckled as his owl strutted around his perch.

“You did well, Nicodemus,” he purred toasting the beautiful owl.

The room glowed emerald. Coolly, he took another sip before pouring out an empty glass as he knew who had arrived. It was now he caught sight of the man he considered to be his younger brother. Ever since he’d witnessed the degradation of Severus upbringing, he took pity on the lad, an emotion he rarely used.

“Hello, Severus,” he greeted.

“What are you playing at, Lucius?” Severus snarled as he snapped up the glass, three fingers of burning alcohol glinted within.

“I am not quite sure what you mean,” Lucius said as he rose up elegantly, keeping a calm façade.

“All this Ceremonial nonsense,” Severus growled, “this cannot be what our Dark Master wishes.”

“Oh, but he does,” Lucius smiled. He tied the robe of his emerald velvet smoking jacket tighter, even though he did not care for the habit, he adored the accessories that came with it. “You’ve been lurking around that rag-tag bunch of scruff-bags too often to notice. Whilst you were busy with your other camp, I had private audience. I sought permission to advocate the renaissance of an old tradition.”

“Why?”

“Why, my dear fellow?” Lucius urbane charm was almost contagious. Also, Lucius knew that the little boy within his usually stoic friend preened at the fact that they were friends. “This Ball would ensure two things: One, to make sure muggleborns feel safe and wanted. Two, it is to distract the world from what is really happening.”

“Who else is going to attend?

“Corban Yaxley, Augustus Rookwood, and a few other lesser ones that got away are going to be there.”

“Tell me,” Severus snapped.

The fact that he had chucked the finest whiskey down in one gulp spoke to Lucius how his friend was taking this latest development. _I seem to have hit a nerve_ , he thought, _I wonder who he’s trying to protect this time?_

“What do you want to hear?”

“Some version of the truth would be appreciated,” Severus snarled, “I wish to know why Miss Granger is being targeted. You’d better not be leading her into a trap!”

Cold, empty laughter erupted from Lucius mouth, his eyes tinged with a form of mania. Rings sparkled and glinted in the intimate candle-light. Severus was on all bases as he felt a sinister reason for the frivolity at the weekend. Devilment and his best friends secretive Mr Cloak and femme fatale Miss Dagger was behind this plot.

“Oh, Severus, I always forget you care for all your charges and it eats you up inside when you see them in pain. I dare say it was you who magically concealed the last Muggle family we were sent to kill and for what? Yes, that is it, you already see infant muggleborns as future students.” 

“She was the one who utilised her fear to shut the house up entirely, with a phone to call the Police,” Severus said. “Her fear was more powerful than Rookwood’s desire to kill. Anyway,” the other wizard shook his head. “That is beside the point. I reiterate: you had better not be…”

“Coax _her_ into a trap?” Lucius asked with a light playful tone. His head tilting slightly. “It is somewhat of a trap, but I will not hurt her, I promise on my honour as a Malfoy.”

“Huh, as if that is worth anything.”

“Maybe you wish her for yourself?”

“She’s my student!”

“I will turn a blind eye,” he smirked again. Lucius relished a decent smirk. The hand he held his glass in, urbanely pointed towards Severus. He watched good-humouredly at his ‘brother’s’ anxious display. The Professor did not even notice Lucius aristocratic gesture as the man  was frantically pacing the room. “I know the letter stated Arthur was her magical guardian, but you are her teacher, you have a more prominent position. You are to chaperone her.”

“Why me?”

“You know why,” Lucius smirking lips pressed against the glass, he gulped his spirit down and put the finger and lip stained vessel, back on the mantle piece above the hearth. “You have known her longer, you are in a position of authority, and should I wish to dance with her you are more likely to give me permission.”

“Sometimes,” Severus gritted through his teeth. “You presume too much. I may not give you permission at all.”

Lucius walked past Severus but stopped when his lips were level with Severus’ ear: “You will, Severus if you know what is good for you and her, you will.” His feet elegantly glided up to the door of his study, his hand on the solid silver ornately decorated handles: “Forgive me for my lack of manners, I am sure you can floo your own way out. You know where the powder is.”

He was pleased with himself, Lucius smirked. Extremely pleased.

“Lucius,” he heard his wife say, he halted on the first landing to their wing and glanced up at the shrew. “You’re planning something aren’t you?”

“How do you know my dear dove?” he asked laying on his natural charm smoothly.

“You look smug and you’re humming.”

“I am just a happy and content wizard, darling.” Before Narcissa could question him, he changed topic in the next sentence. “Now you are looking forward to Saturday night, are you not? I can’t wait to show off my beautiful wife.”

“I must say it is going to be amazing to be able to patron some poor unfortunate,” she sighed, “the Blacks never did this much because we were scared that… well, you know what happened. Thankfully, I am a Malfoy now, and I can fulfil my desire to be a mother to a daughter.”

By now Lucius was fully up the stairs, he held his elbow out for his wife to take, her dainty hand weaved through the crook. The glow in her cheeks and the shine of her eyes spoke all to Lucius. Narcissa was going to play with her chosen pupil the way a four-year-old girl does her dolls.

Draco was sulking outside his bedroom door and watched mulishly as his parents walked by. Lucius rolled his eyes as Narcissa offered to tuck her little boy in bed, to which he was delighted to hear his son’s embarrassed mumble to the negative. Then the boy turned to his father.

“Do I have to attend this stupid ball, father?” he whinged. “Why would I want to dance with a load of mudbloods anyway?”

“We have been through this, Draco,” Lucius snarled – his patience had frayed as far as his son and this subject, were concerned. “You do have to attend, we are a publicly happy family. You will dance with the girls. You will not say that descriptive,” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “You will utilise the etiquette lessons your mother and I pay your tutor for. I won’t hear another word about this subject between now and Sunday morning, am I clear?”

Narcissa glanced between her husband and her son: “I think that your father knows what he is doing, Draco.”

This was met with an excessive rolling of eyes, a deep sigh, and an angry sneer that eerily matched Lucius’ own.

“Fine,” he opened his bedroom door, “I hear and obey, father!” then he slammed his door shut.

“Oh dear, maybe I…”

“No, Narcissa,” Lucius had had enough of his wife’s meddling in their son’s upbringing. “I gave sway over Hogwarts. Everything else regarding our son’s welfare  is up to me. Come to bed. Let him sulk!”

Firmly, Lucius maneuvered his wife away from their petulant son’s door and walked her to their bedroom. Ignoring him whilst he had his tantrum, would do the lad some good!

Later at night, he observed Narcissa lying next to him in bed, dressed as sexily as she always has been. Any man would wish her to be his wife. So, why did their marriage seem wrong to him? Why, as he was planning this, was he looking more and more forward to seeing how Miss Granger had turned out?

What was it about this girl that caused an itch in his skull that could not be scratched? The moment they met he was stunned that she was a muggleborn! He could feel her strength then. Since further meetings, he’d begun to crave the feel of their core twining around each other. It was like blood pulsing through his veins.

One thing was certain, the last person he wanted her with was his son. He was a Malfoy, and if there was one thing he was excellent at was the art of manipulation. Suborning good hearted people was a delicious feeling of power. He was certain Miss Granger was not as goody-goody as she appeared!

He went to sleep with one last question: Why did the thought of her with someone else give him heart-burn?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comedian Ken Dodd really did utilise Feather Dusters as comedy and everyone wanted one because of it. Check him out on youtube. He was hilarious and did not need to be vulgar to be so hilarious.


End file.
